Nowhere Girl
by perxephne
Summary: Whilst trying to outrun her demons, Missie finds herself facing down vampires, unexpectedly finding family along the way. {AU}.
1. Back To The Start

**Author's Note:** Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

* * *

**Back To The Start**

"Buck up, babe," Missie muttered to herself, hauling her rucksack higher on her shoulder, "it's time to start the show." She smoothed down the oversized black and white checked shirt buttoned up to her chin, its hem hanging down to the ripped knees of her skinny jeans, flapping like wings behind her whenever the wind blew. Her greasy hair was tucked up into the Carharrt trucker cap she'd found at the bus station where she'd tried to wash up, but that had been a losing battle, the filth having become almost like a second skin.

Her hand hovered above the brass door knocker, her nerve going. Desperation had led her here, but it was either this or another night out there, and she'd had enough of that, being nearly driven to breaking point. Baggins was long gone, just like everyone else she'd ever cared about, and the voices were getting louder, escaping the confines of her consciousness, existing outwith her head. It seemed like they were trying to tell her something, but what, she didn't know, and didn't want to know either.

Exhaling sharply, she banged the door knocker, once, twice, thrice. As she waited for somebody to answer, two girls rounded the side of the house, only to stop dead at the sight of Missie standing on the porch. The older of the two, a thickset girl with long dishwater blonde hair, studied Missie with narrowed eyes, the other edging away, looking nervous.

"Hey, this is private property," the blonde girl spat, making Missie turn around, "any hobos caught trespassing will get their asses kicked, do y'hear?"

Missie tilted her head to the side. "Oh, I hear you loud and clear," she said smartly, "so I suggest you make like a tree and leave."

It took a moment for Missie's meaning to sink in, but when it did, the blonde girl's face turned an ugly shade of red. But before she could do anything, the door opened, revealing a tall, dark haired woman in faded denims and a grey thermal, a dish-towel hanging from her hand. Upon seeing Missie standing there, she did a dramatic double-take, her brown eyes bulging comically, her other hand gripping the door-frame for support. "_Melissa?_" she said in disbelief, staring at Missie as if she were Satan. "Is that _you?_"

"Yeah, it's me," Missie said, shoulders hunching, wishing herself a world away. But there were many circles of hell and she at least knew how to navigate her way through this one.

Her mother looked at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing. "What an unexpected pleasure, Melissa," she said coldly, recovering her composure, nostrils flaring with disgust at Missie's palpable body odour, "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

"Five years too soon," Missie replied. "Time just flies, doesn't it, Mom?"

* * *

"You drop out of college, and then you hook up with a drop-out who has now dropped you. Would you say that was the gist of your whole sorry existence?"

"All I'm hearing is the word drop, Mom."

"Well, you've dropped the ball one too many times, Missie, and I am sick of picking you up off the floor."

"Who, me or the ball?"

Missie's mother just shook her head, Missie sinking back into the sofa, feeling like five years hadn't passed at all; that she had never left in the first place. She glanced around the living room, noting nothing had changed here either, only that the furniture was even more battered than before. And the years hadn't been kind to her mother either. She had aged, and badly at that. Victoria Butler had once been a striking looking woman, but stress and cigarettes had taken their toll, turning her into an old woman before her time.

"I hope you're not bringing any trouble to my door," Tori accused, eyes narrowing again. "Are you?"

Missie kept a poker face, concealing her panic in plain sight, remembering the mens' faces, their hands on her, holding her down; the ruthless edge of the knife against her skin."No, of course not," she lied, remembering coming back from the charity hospital, only to find Nate gone, not even leaving a note. She had skipped cities that night, getting a Greyhound out of town, before going to ground, and here she was, hoping she'd finally ran far enough.

"You're certainly bringing a stink, that's for sure," Tori snapped, shielding her nose with the back of her hand. "When did you last have a shower?"

"I tried to clean up before I came here."

"Sure doesn't smell like you tried hard enough."

Missie winced, sinking further into the sofa, wishing it would absorb her entirely. Outside, the air rung with the sound of children yelling and their thudding feet, making Missie's head ache. "How are the boys?" she asked awkwardly, her leg ticcing. She'd lost touch with her four brothers, but then again, she'd expected no different. Missie had been the baby of the family and a girl to boot, her youngest brother being ten when she was born. Growing up, she and her brothers had never been close, only sharing a surface warmth that had faded over time. There wasn't any hostility, only emptiness.

"They're good," Tori said evasively, sparing a glance at the studio portrait hanging above the fireplace, showing her surrounded by her sons, her husband and daughter missing from the family line-up. It had been taken two years after Joel's death, Melissa long gone at this point. She liked the picture regardless of this though; it showed how her family should be, not what they were.

Missie nodded, not sure what else to say. She was desperate for a shower and a hot meal, never mind clean knickers. Humble had never been her favourite flavour of pie yet here she was, first in line for a second helping, her mother never mean when it came to cutting her a slice. But the fact Tori had let her through the front door though in the first place was a positive sign, but she couldn't afford to be overly optimistic.

"You've got gall to show your face here," Tori then said, shaking her head, "sheer and utter _gall_."

"Mom" -

\- "All that goddamn money wasted..." Tori shook her head again, lighting up a cigarette. "When I think about the frigging things I could have done with that money," she complained, taking a long drag, "but oh no, I had to clean up yet another one of your hot messes."

Missie's jaw tightened. College had been the key to freedom only for her to find out it was just another gilded cage. She had stuck it out for as long as she could, before quietly dropping out, taking up with Nate, only to end up on the streets. "Okay, I bailed – big-time," she admitted, straightening up, "but I tried to keep in touch. You didn't."

"Would you have if you were me?"

"I'll pay you the money back."

"With what, fairy dust?"

"I'll get a freaking job."

"Honey, no employer in their right mind is going to take you on – not with that resume."

"I worked three summers straight at the car wash" -

\- "Because you had no qualms with wearing wet-t-shirts," Tori snapped, "and look where the hell that led to!"

Missie swallowed hard, wishing she hadn't mentioned the car wash, the very memory enough to nauseate. That summer had been the tripwire, the spark to the fuse, sending her off the rails. It had been the summer where she'd cemented all her mother's suspicions she was just simply no good.

"Hadn't I warned you to watch your behaviour?" Tori pressed, waving her cigarette in agitation. "To not prance about like a prostitute in front of all these college boys?"

Missie looked away, fighting the bile rising in her throat. That summer had been her last at the car wash. It served as a town institution, run by the richest man in the county, Miles Davies. It was a high school rite of passage to spend the summer working there, and she had loved it, unashamedly enjoying her status as eye candy, earning her huge tips, Missie making eyes if it made her money. It had fuelled her already out of control ego, Missie thinking herself untouchable until Joshua Davies had taught her that day in his father's office that she wasn't, trying to force himself upon her.

Her father had promised to pick her up from work that day to drive her down to the lake, where she'd arranged to go swimming with friends, Missie agreeing to meet him at the car wash's main entrance. But when she hadn't showed up, he'd gone looking for her, checking the car wash office, only for all hell to break loose when he'd walked in on them. He hadn't cared that Joshua Davies's father was a dangerous man to cross, simply battering the boy to a pulp, nearly sending him first class into the afterlife.

He had almost lost his job as a sheriff's deputy over it, being meant to uphold the law, not affront it, but in the end it had been hushed up, Miles Davies taking advantage of the corrupt justice system, using his wealth to grease the necessary palms. His son had skipped town regardless, and Missie had left for college that autumn, escaping her mother's accusing eyes.

Even now, Missie could only think of that summer with disbelief, unable to accept it had even happened. But what had shocked her most was her father's reaction; that deep down he had cared for her after all. He had always been a man's man, preferring to spend time with his sons over his daughter, emotionally keeping her at arm's length. He served as her chauffer, ferrying her about, as well as bankrolling her existence, but that had been the extent of his involvement in her upbringing.

But she'd learned he loved her too late, her father dying the following year in the line of duty. He had been dealing with a domestic, only to end up taking a knife to the stomach. He had died slowly, painfully; his hand in hers when his eyes had finally closed.

"It wasn't my fault," Missie said suddenly, "Joshua Davies had no right to do that to me, no matter what I wore, and my father recognized that. He never said I deserved it like you did. And you know what? I _didn't_."

* * *

Missie stood in the middle of her old room, feeling disorientated, like she'd stepped into a time warp, making her tighten her hold on the towel wrapped around her. Her pink and white four poster bed was still there, the only difference being that the bed was now neatly made, her lace pillows arrayed in almost military order. The walls were still papered with boy-band posters, as well as photos of her and her friends pulling stupid faces, the gaps inbetween punctuated with rosettes from horse-riding competitions and spelling bee certificates. A bookcase stood in the far corner, irregular rows of books spilling across the shelves alongside her old collection of snow globes. Opposite was her fancy white and gold vanity, its surface still littered with old issues of _Teen Vogue_, dried out make-up and scratched CDs, the mirror framed with flashbulbs, which had always made the young Missie feel like a movie-star whenever she checked her reflection.

She wandered over to the window, hesitating before leaning out, craning her neck to see if her old escape route was still there, holding onto the sill for support with her other hand, whilst holding up the towel with the other. The wooden trellis was bare of its usual foliage, but nothing else had altered, resurrecting memories of sneaking out behind her parents' backs. She would always fear being heard more than the fall, the wood creaking under her weight, leaving her fingers full of splinters. The cute boy next door had caught her creeping out once, only agreeing to keep it a secret in return for a kiss, Missie striking the bargain without a second thought.

Exhaling sharply, Missie drew her head in, wondering at her mother for keeping the room almost as a shrine. Her mother had only got into fostering when her two eldest sons had moved out, originally only taking in teenage boys, joking they were her MO. But when the others had left the nest, leaving her with a houseful of empty rooms, she'd expanded her intake and repertoire, fostering those who weren't welcomed anywhere else, and giving house room to the odd emergency case from time to time.

Unlike her own room, her brothers' old bedrooms had been put to full use, the two largest having each had an en-suite installed at some point during her absence, whilst the two smaller rooms still had to make do with the upstairs bathroom down the hall. Each room had been repainted and now contained a set of bunk-beds, a single wardrobe and matching chest of drawers; the interiors lacking personality, rendering the surroundings sterile, the sight making Missie almost recoil. It was more like a hotel than a house, but her mother wasn't doing this out of the goodness of her heart, only interested in securing a steady income.

Gritting her teeth, Missie went over to the old walk-in wardrobe, ignoring the battered 'BOGEY-MAN ON BOARD' sign taped to its front. She had snuck all her dirty clothes into the laundry, more than sure her mother would object if she knew, but it had left her with nothing to wear. Missie hesitated before sliding open the door with some difficulty, having to give it a good whack with the palm of her hand. Inside was complete chaos, clothes dangling from hangers, T-shirts warring with dresses, bikinis tangled up with trousers. Her style then had been bright and preppy, the sight almost hurting her eyes, a world away from what she wore now.

Biting the bullet, she pulled out a bright pink Sloppy Joe jumper, a neon green vest top and a pair of denim cut-offs, pulling out an old prom-dress, a crop top and hoodie at the same time. She didn't bother picking them up, leaving them lying on the floor as she made her way over to the chest of drawers, ignoring the cheerleading trophies lining the shelf above. She made short work of finding clean underwear and socks, ignoring the faded fabric, even though the bra situation would be a bitch until her old underwear was washed, the straps cutting painfully into her flesh each time she so much as stretched an arm. And as for new shoes, what was on offer in her closet was limited, most of her former footwear having mysteriously gone missing.

Wandering over to the vanity, Missie studied her reflection, running her tongue over her teeth, having brushed them until her gums bled. Out there, dental hygiene had been haphazard, Missie living on limited means, existing on next to nothing. Along with the toothpaste, toothbrush, floss and mouthwash, she had also appropriated a number of toiletries for her own use, which her mother would surely have something to say about. With slightly shaking hands, she smoothed down her jumper, Missie watching the movement in the mirror, her gaze then travelling upwards again, dwelling on her ravaged features, exhaustion aging her.

She could see her mother's face behind her own, both sharing the same sallow skin, slanting cheekbones and crooked mouths, her eyes the only inheritance she had from her father, ebony to the point of almost obscuring her irises. Her dark hair fell down her back in damp waves, the strands trailing across her shoulders likes snakes. She remembered the last time she'd looked in this mirror, oblivious of the fate awaiting her, a fucked up future of her own forging; only thinking she was finally escaping the house that had never been a home, only to find herself here again.

_Nobody said it was easy_  
_No one ever said it would be this hard_  
_Oh take me back to the start..._


	2. Just Let The Heads Roll

**Just Let The Heads Roll**

_Home, it's where the heart is_  
_So just let me breathe again..._

"Did you take that new box of toothpaste?"

Missie turned around, only to see her mother standing at the top of the stairs, her face furious. "Yes," she said smartly, "and a toothbrush, floss, mouthwash, some shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, a razor" -

\- "Enough with the frigging shopping list," Tori snapped. "You should have asked first."

"You should have offered."

Tori's jaw tightened. "You had a rucksack with you," she pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest, "what was in it?"

"A few dirty clothes."

"And where are they?"

"In your washing machine."

"_In_fecting my washing machine no doubt."

"Probably."

Tori studied Missie for a few moments, eyes narrowing. "Let me make this very clear," she said, taking a step forwards, making Missie take a step back, "I'm not letting you stay here out of the goodness of my heart. I'm expecting you to earn your keep. I've got a string of kids to cater for and you're going to help me cater to them."

"I said I'm going to find a job."

"And until then, you'll pull your weight around here."

Missie bit her lip. From anyone else, this would be a reasonable request, but not when it came from her mother's mouth. "Sure," she said, shrugging her shoulder.

Tori cast her a contemptuous glance before turning on her heel, Missie watching her go with empty eyes.

* * *

"Look, the hobo's doing her laundry."

Missie turned around at the sound of sniggering, only to see the thickset girl from earlier standing in the doorway of the utility room, two other girls standing on either side of her. "Talking about yourself, again?" she said airily, piling her hair atop her head. "You shouldn't insult yourself so. Your ego must be suffering as it is, especially with your weight issues, and low self-confidence" -

\- "I have a thyroid problem," the thickset girl hissed, stepping inside the room, the other two girls hanging back, no longer laughing, "not a weight problem."

"You sure have an attitude problem," Missie observed, letting her hair drop, spilling down her back again.

"You'll have an even bigger problem on your hands unless you shut up."

Missie scoffed. "Did you seriously just say that?" she said in mock disbelief. "Someone with a weight – sorry, a _thyroid _problem shouldn't be throwing around sentences like that."

The girl stared at her, mouth trembling despite herself, before suddenly turning and fleeing the room, the other two girls following her. Missie turned back to the tumble-dryer, biting her lower lip, now regretting stooping down to the girl's level. The kid was probably just defending her territory but Missie wasn't here to get involved in gangland wars of the juvenile variety.

"Well, out of the frying pan and into the fire," she muttered to herself, watching the tumble-dryer spin round.

* * *

"_Melissa!_"

Missie hastily sat up from where she'd been lying spread-eagled atop her bed, only to see her mother standing in the doorway, looking mad enough to breathe fire. "What is it?" she yelled over the music, struggling to keep her voice civil. She had done two loads of laundry on top of her own, mopped the floors and washed a stack of dishes, so she thought she was entitled to a little down-time even as it felt unnatural, Missie too on edge to let her guard down, old habits dying hard.

"Turn that shit off," Tori yelled back, gesturing to the boombox, _Ain't No Mountain High Enough _seguing into _Stand By Me_. "Mrs. Wong was at the door there, complaining she couldn't sleep because somebody was playing _Dancing In The Street_ on repeat."

"It was _Nowhere To Run_."

"I don't give a shit what it was - it's eight o'clock in the evening, and I don't want our shitty neighbours coming around complaining about the shitty music you play" -

\- "Motown isn't shitty music!" -

\- "In case you've forgotten, I have a bunch of kids who are due to go to bed, so I suggest you switch that shit off!"

"Fine, I will!"

"Then do it."

Missie made a big show of switching the boombox off. "Happy?" she snapped, flopping back down on the lace pillows. She had been playing the music at full blast in a vain bid to keep the voices at bay. They seemed to stir into life when all was silent, but never during her dreams, but she figured that was just a matter of time.

"What the hell is that on your jumper? Blood!?"

Missie looked down at her front, brow furrowing. "Oh that," she said dismissively, "I made myself a ketchup sandwich earlier."

"Then goddamn clean yourself up, you're not living on the streets now."

Missie sat up for the second time, making another big show of pulling the jumper over her head, before dumping it dramatically on the floor. "Happy?" she reiterated.

Tori stared at her, eyes widening with horror at the ugly scar that ran from the nape of Missie's neck downwards. "What the hell happened there?" she said in disbelief.

Missie pulled the neck-line of her vest-top higher, trying and failing to hide the trailing scar. "Are we done?" she asked abruptly. "I kind of want my privacy back."

Tori shook her head, letting the matter momentarily drop. "No, I'm not done, Melissa," she retorted. "I've got an emergency case on my hands and I need this room cleared up and you out of it."

"What, you actually put kids in here?"

"Only the emergency ones," Tori said impatiently, "when you went to college, your dad told me to leave your room be. He liked to come in here and sit sometimes. After he died, I couldn't... I mean, it's useful to have somewhere to put a kid that's only going to be here for a day or so."

Missie didn't want to think of her father, to remember what she'd lost. "That explains a lot," she said, sliding off the bed, her words making Tori frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Most of my shoes are gone," Missie snapped, "and God knows what else thanks to their light fingers."

"A lot of these kids have nothing but the clothes they're standing up in," Tori snapped back, going over to the bed, straightening the cushions, "something I'd have at least thought you'd understand, if not sympathize with."

"Oh, I understand all right," Missie said, picking her jumper up off the floor, "but don't expect any sympathy on my part."

"Such a caring, giving girl," Tori said sarcastically, smoothing down the counterpane, "it feels like I have an angel for a daughter."

"Look at my feet, Mom," Missie spat, gesturing angrily to the hot pink sequinned Skechers she was now wearing, "they're kid's shoes. They light up for chrissake!"

"They sure cost your sainted father a pretty penny," Tori remarked, "and how long did you wear them? All of two weeks?"

Missie snorted. "What's the brat's name?" she then demanded, stalking over to the walk-in wardrobe, sliding the door open with more force than needed.

"Amy," her mother said, unplugging the boombox, "Amy Belefort or something like that."


	3. Suffer Little Children

**Suffer Little Children**

" 'Because Bitches Do It Better?' "

Missie ignored her mother's observation on the slogan emblazoned across her jumper. "It's clean," she snapped, slamming down the plate of cheese toasties meant for the new arrival. Nine o'clock had came and went, and still this Amy Belefort-or-something-like-that still hadn't shown up.

"I'll deal with the paperwork and then you can get her ready for bed," Tori yawned, confirming Missie's suspicions she was going to be saddled with the brat, "I'm all tuckered out."

"What about pyjamas and stuff?" Missie asked, trying to suppress her panic. She wasn't exactly the maternal type, barely able to look after herself never mind a brat.

" 'Stuff?' " Tori said innocently, lighting up a cigerette. "What kind of stuff are you talking about?"

Missie didn't answer, choosing to pour out a glass of milk instead, not trusting herself to speak.

"The stuff that you took earlier, that was my gear, my own personal property," Tori snapped, taking a long drag, "which you will of course recompense me for. But the kids' supplies or 'stuff' as you call it– I keep all that in the hall closet at the top of the stairs. It's all own brand shit but it passes muster."

Missie nodded, putting the milk back in the fridge. "What's the brat's story?" she made herself ask. "Anything I should know about?"

"Um, she's ten, African-American, no family," Tori reeled off, exhaling the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, "mom was some sort of crackhead who dragged her kid from place to place. Maybe because she owed money or the law was after her. I don't know. Probably just looking for her next hit. Anyways her last known address was Georgia, before that Baton Rouge."

"Where do they live now?" Missie asked, pulling out a chair, before sitting down. "I mean, where did they live before the shit hit the fan?"

"Some motel," Tori said, stubbing out the cigerette on a saucer, "where her mom could entertain her clients, if you get my drift. Mommy dearest then OD's and we're landed with her brat, as you so eloquently describe her."

"That's a lot for a little kid to handle."

Tori shrugged. "I'm not interested in the details," she said, "as long as the state signs the cheques, I don't give a shit."

_I bet you don't_, Missie thought, leg ticcing, tracing a circle on the table-top with the tip of her finger. An uncomfortable silence fell, her mother glancing out of the window every few minutes, tapping her foot impatiently. Then there was the sudden squeal of car tyres, making them both jump violently, the stream of headlights flooding the kitchen before dimming into darkness.

"Finally," Tori muttered, tossing her cigerette into the trash. There was a knock on the front door, sharp, stacatto, her mother going out to answer it, Missie leaning back in her seat, dreading what was coming next.

Footsteps filled the hall, voices rising and falling, a female police officer then appearing in the doorway, hair pulled back into a severe bun. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Costello," she said conversationally, glancing around as she stepped into the kitchen, carrying a manila folder under her arm, a little girl trailing at her heels, shoulders hunched.

Tori preened. "Thank you," she replied, adopting an ingratiating tone that had always grated on Missie's nerves. "This is my daughter, Melissa," she then said hastily, answering the police officer's questioning glance in Missie's direction, "she's... she's recently just moved back into the neighborhood."

"Nice," the police officer said, frowning as she read the slogan on Missie's jumper, "so what are you doing?" she asked Missie, making her start slightly. "Work, study, something like that?"

"I'm... I'm considering my options," Missie said awkwardly, making the little girl glance at her, before looking away again.

"Good, good," the police officer said distractedly, "well, it's been nice meeting you." She discreetly made eye contact with Tori, the two of them then stepping into the hall, leaving Missie alone with the little girl who just stood there, head bowed, a turquoise backpack dangling from her arm.

"Um, nice hair," Missie said awkwardly, making the little girl glance at her again, "very Princess Leia. She was one cool broad."

The little girl just looked at her, her small face swollen from crying, her eyes red-rimmed. The sight made Missie shift uncomfortably in her chair, being uncomfortably reminded of herself, flung from fate to fate, another nobody going nowhere.

"I'm Melissa," Missie said, trying again, wondering at herself for even bothering, "Missie for short. They tell me you're Amy Belefort."

"Amy Bellafon_te,_" the little girl flared up, her dark eyes instantly angry, jaw tightening.

_She speaks,_ Missie thought dryly. She glanced over the girl, seeing she was presentable enough, if a little thin, her clothes clean, her backpack looking almost brand new. "Nice gear, who gave you it?" she asked, gesturing to Amy's outfit, trying to build a picture of what she was dealing with. She had been expecting some snotty undersized kid who would wet the bed, not this small mortal who looked like she could spit fire any moment.

"My mom did," Amy glowered, "who else?"

"What's in the backpack?"

"None of your beeswax."

"O-kay," Missie snapped, "be like that then."

"I will," Amy retorted, both of them glancing up as Tori and the police officer came back into the kitchen.

"I'll be on my way now, Amy," the police officer said, Amy ignoring her, turning away instead. The police officer and Tori exchanged glances. "Well, take care," she then said, nodding at Missie and her mother, "I'll show myself out."

As her footsteps receded, the front door clicking shut, Tori going out to lock up for the night, another awkward silence fell, making Missie shift in her seat again, wishing herself a world away. "Um, we thought you might be hungry," she said uneasily to Amy, "but I don't know if you dig cheese toasties. The milk is for you. It's – it's good for growing bones, or so TV says. TV might just be lying though, so don't trust TV, okay?"

Amy raised her eyebrows at this outburst, but didn't say anything smart back, making a big show of sitting down by dragging the chair out from under the table, its legs screeching across the tiles. Missie slid the plate across to her, Amy eying the cheese toasties as if they were arsenic, her mouth pursing in distate.

"I can personally assure you they're not poisoned," Missie snapped as Tori came back into the kitchen, "and you can put the backpack down. You're not going anywhere, not unless you have a freaking trip to Vegas booked that we don't know about."

Amy scowled at her, but carefully set the backpack down on the ground anyways, checking to make sure the floor was clean first. She gingerly lifted up a cheese toastie to her lips, hesitating before taking a bite, making Missie roll her eyes.

"Get that down your gullet," Missie then said as she passed Amy the glass of milk. "Here, you can wash it down with that." She frowned as acrid smoke filled the kitchen, her mother lighting up yet another cigerette. "Mom," she snapped, "do you mind?"

"Yes, I do," Tori retorted, but she left the kitchen anyways, going out onto the back porch instead to smoke in peace.

Missie leaned back in her seat again, watching out of the corner of her eye as Amy took another cheese toastie, her hand shaking. Hanging around Amy's neck was a key on a long silver chain, probably her last link to the past. Only ten years old and alone in the world, a nowhere girl, just like Missie.


	4. Crossroads

**Crossroads**

"You like books?"

Amy whirled around, instantly on the alert, appraising Missie like an enemy. She stood before the bookcase, cutting a pathetic figure in one of Missie's oversized nighties, the fabric faded, rendering the teddy-bear emblazoned across the front almost out of existence. She was wearing a pair of stripy pink and black socks pulled up the knees, also courtesy of Missie.

"Do you mind if I come in?" Missie asked from the doorway, disliking having to ask permission to enter her own room, but understanding at the same time she had to respect the child's personal space, not wanting Amy to think she was some sort of weirdo.

Amy studied Missie, brows drawing together, before nodding, the action abrupt.

Missie obeyed, still careful to keep her distance. "You see these books, right?" she pointed out, gesturing to the bookcase. "Well, they're _my_ books and this _my_ room, so respect the zone, okay?"

"If this is your room, why did your mom put me in here?" Amy questioned, folding her arms across her chest. "And why did your mom lie to the cop lady about you living here?"

"My mom is a bitch," Missie snapped, "that's all you need to know."

"You shouldn't talk about your mom like that."

"What do you know about my mom, huh?" Missie retorted, rounding on her. "You just got here and already you've got an opinion on her."

"At least you have a mom!" Amy choked out. "She's still alive!"

Missie stared at her. "Right, that's enough," she said agitadedly, smoothing back her hair with both hands, "get to bed."

"No."

"You don't wet yourself, do you?" Missie demanded, ignoring her. "I don't want my bed turned into Piss City."

"I don't wet the bed!" Amy protested. "I'm not a baby!"

"You sure act like one."

Amy glared at her before stomping over to the bed and climbing into it with some difficulty. "What type of bed is this?" she complained, wiping her eyes with the inside of her wrist. "This isn't a proper bed."

"It's more than a proper bed, brat," Missie snapped, "it's a four-poster bed, I'll have you know, the height of freaking luxury."

"Yeah, right."

"Do you want me to tuck you in?"

"I told you I wasn't a baby."

"And I've been told to look after you, so booyah, okay?"

"Your mom is supposed to be looking after me."

"Yeah, maybe in a parralel unvierse," Missie scoffed. "Until I get a job, I'm at her beck and call, brat."

"I'm not a brat either, brat."

Missie exhaled sharply, before pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and fore-finger. "Look," she said, exhaling sharply, "it's been a long night, so let's just call it a night, okay?"

Amy wrinkled her nose. "Well, call it," she said smartly, "I'm not the one running off my mouth here."

"Jeesh, you might be ten years old but you've got the mindset of an old tyrant," Missie snapped, her gaze wandering over to the turquise backpack sitting on her vanity.

"Don't touch that!" Amy flared up, following the path of her stare. "That's mine! It's private!"

"Well, don't touch my stuff unless I say otherwise, and I won't go near your backpack, okay?" Missie bargained, making Amy's eyes narrow.

"Fine, whatever," Amy agreed, lying down, drawing the counterpane over her head.

"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Do I want my teeth to fall out?"

"Well, did you or not!?"

"You know I did."

"Uh, do you want me to take away the cushions, then?"

"No, I don't," Amy said impatiently, "why are you acting like you care?"

"I don't care," Missie snapped, "I don't even know you. But I'm not entirely made of stone, you know. I'm not a complete bitch."

"Even though they do everything better?"

Missie looked down at the front of her jumper. "This outfit isn't doing me any favours, is it?" she said self-deprecatingly. "Also, don't swear," she added hastily.

"I'm not, I am quoting."

Missie shook her head at this. "Well," she then said awkwardly, making for the door, "I'll be downstairs if you need me." _Kipping on the freaking_ _couch_, Missie added as a bitter afterthought. "I'll leave the light on for you," she finished, before turning and leaving, every step strangely feeling like a mile.

_Just every time I run_

_I keep on falling_…


End file.
